For Sylvia Plath

For Sylvia Plath So where do you float now; Genius of misery Keeper and kept Of those mysterious bees? You would frown at an epitaph, I know. But epitaphs are inevitable, You know. Anyone who's read your lines Wonders how you did it; How those lines, tiny chains, Pullled steady, unified; Dragged you down to face the dark The deep crevices of the mind - Or perhaps you dragged them? I'm Anybody; you're another - Two mysteries Linked by tiny chains.